


B-Sides

by BadLightning (221BFakerStreet)



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Romance, Awkwardness, Canonical Character Death, Credence Barebone Needs a Hug, Crispy Cinnamon Roll Credence, Drabble Collection, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mail Order Brides, Multi, One Shot Collection, Original Percival Graves Needs a Hug, Original Percival Graves is a Softie, Samhain, Smitten Original Percival Graves, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, With A Twist, crispy cinnamon roll, mix bag, stories I may never finish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-12 12:06:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12958827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221BFakerStreet/pseuds/BadLightning
Summary: Here we have a collection of fics that for one reason or another, I feel compelled to mark as unfinished/unexplored. Some of them are simply too short for me to justify putting out into the world on their own. Tags will be updated as appropriate.





	1. Cemetery Walk

**Author's Note:**

> This first story is one I've already posted on my tumblr (221BFakerStreet).
> 
> The larger story arc I had in mind for this particular plot bunny is just too big for how terribly busy I am right now, but this little bit of it seemed like it could stand on its own.

* * *

 

“ _I rest in the hope that one bright day_  
_sunshine will burst through these prisons of clay_  
 _the trumpets will sound in the hills near and far,_  
 _will wake up the dead in the old churchyard._ ”

_\-- Old Churchyard_

* * *

 

 

There was nothing left of Credence to bury, but his tombstone rests in a place of honor on the Graves’ estate, under the wild oak on the hill; the place Percival had chosen for his own resting place. He felt it every time he walked up that hill, sat down a spell to talk with a young man whom he had failed to save, felt the hours drag, the years stretching before him, unspooling like thread. He felt the ache in his bones, and thought it might be lingering magical damage from his weeks of captivity, or perhaps old age carrying him into oblivion finally, _finally_ \- but he’s not _that_ old, he knows. He is… tired. He is sad.

He thinks that Tina can see it in him, _knows_ , in fact, that her sister _does_. Neither one of them have said anything outright, but rather made it a point to start visiting him regularly, will often make an evening of it. There was a time in his past when Percival would have scoffed at the kindness, would have stubbornly persisted in resisting things he needed, or wanted. But he was _tired_. He never even batted an eyelash when Queenie brought her no-maj beau, Jacob. He ate the man’s pastries, laughed together with him as Newt regaled them all with tales of his Niffler, Conrad. Mercy Lewis, he’d drunk whisky with the man!

And still, through it all, he has ached in a way he cannot put into words. It is in his every look, his every gesture, the way he pours his tea or grips his cane. Like a raw, open wound that refuses to heal. Every time it becomes too much, he goes and sees Credence. He doesn’t have much else to do, these days. He’d sit with his back against the rough bark of the tree, and if the wind blew his hair from his forehead, he could so easily imagine cool fingers sweeping it back instead. Could practically feel those scarred palms against his own stubbled cheek.

A strange and troubling thought occurred to Graves as he sat at the card table in his parlor, the waning light casting long shadows through the large windows. Something that had seeped in through the cracks of his bedroom door at night, and pulled him into the depths of dreams like ocean waves. The idea that, somehow, his love should be enough; that words yet unspoken have power in them, a spark at the tip of the tongue. That, if only he should speak the words, they can light a path through the darkness so that Credence might find his way home.

In a week’s time Samhain will be upon them. The veil will be thinnest then, and Percival trembles with the realization. Queenie looks at him from across the table, having dropped her hand of cards in favor of a gaping mouth.

“Percival, you can’t mean-” she cuts herself off, probably realizing that he _does_ mean, and Tina glances back and forth between them, mildly concerned at the outburst. Jacob simply looks confused, and Newt is currently out of the country, and so he doesn’t look any way at all about the situation (though if he knew, he might).

He grips his cane harder and speaks softly.

“I could use some help.”

Then, he thinks very loudly. He pictures the way Credence smiled when he saw Percival walking toward him on their third official meeting. He sees with absolute clarity the awe and wonder on the young man’s face as Percival healed the fresh welts on his palms, before either one of them had known what they were about to lose. Remembers the fine hairs at the nape of Credence’s neck, how they brushed against his fingers, how warm his skin had felt, how his sobs had settled into warm puffs of breath against his neck. He thinks of Credence until the feeling is too much for such a small, frail vessel.

He thinks of his dear boy until his cup runs over, and he is nearly undone.

“Yes,” Queenie whispers, and she is crying. “We’ll help.”

“Help what? Queenie? Mr. Graves?” Tina’s calm exterior is close to breaking, trained auror though she may be. Queenie smiles through her tears, and lets out a tinkling laugh.

“Oh, honey… [we’re gonna raise the dead](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=my-aB5orbG0).”


	2. Delivery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Graves is a lonely doofus, and Credence is a crispy cinnamon roll who is trying his best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A mail order bride AU that I started and am likely never going to finish. If anyone is inspired/interested in continuing it, pls let me know if you do because that shit makes me super happy.

The first thing that Percival Graves does when he arrives home is to twitter about in the foyer of his home like an idiot. The second thing he does is fix his hair in the hall mirror and try not to look as though he has rushed home. He had wanted to pick Credence up himself, but the agency insisted on delivering him. Like a package. Graves winces at his reflection, feeling his own judgmental stare seeming to look through him from behind the glass.

 

But, he reasons, he is _lonely_. Has been for quite some time, now. He tries to tell himself that he is likely far nicer than anyone else Credence might otherwise encounter under such circumstances. And, well, he had looked at the young man's photograph and swore that his heart had stilled in his chest, returning only to beat more furiously than it ever had before.

 

The woman had nearly closed the book on his hand, and seemed almost unwilling to accept Percival’s choice. He had been the one to insist, that time.

 

There is a knock at the door then, and for a moment Percival forgets that it is _his_ door and he can answer it. The knock comes again, and he has the door open before he has time to formulate a coherent thought. Luckily, years of cultivating a friendly but aloof work demeanor have afforded him this one advantage, if nothing else: he smiles, says hello, and bids his visitors come inside.

 

Credence's company escort is a thin slip of a girl, barely looks old enough to drive let alone work for a… matchmaking service. Percival does note, however, how her keen eyes scope the living room as she walks carefully around. Credence hangs back by the entryway, and Graves resists running a hand through his hair in a nervous manner. Instead, he offers up his couch for them to sit on.

 

“Would anyone like some coffee? Or I have tea, if you’d prefer?” This last is said mostly to Credence, who blushes furiously and casts his gaze downward. Percival thinks he should probably look away, but he can't seem to manage it. Credence is taller than Graves had expected, face a bit gaunter than in his photo, but he is still beautiful. Handsome. Both. Face framed by gentle curls of pitch black hair, lips full and pink, and fluttering eyelashes as the boy tries not to look directly at him.

 

“Tea,” he replies in a voice so quiet Graves thinks he might have to step closer to hear, “please.”

 

He does step closer then, just a bit, enough to duck his head so that he is able to look Credence in the eye. He gives his most reassuring smile, soft and slow. “I'm very happy to finally meet you, Credence.” Once Credence gives him a watery smile in return, he continues, gesturing to the couch where the young woman is sitting, ostensibly observing their interaction, “Please, sit. I'll bring the tea in just a moment.”

 

He can hear the young woman talking in a low, soothing hum as he gathers the kettle and sets the water to boil. Percival Graves is a stolid and serious man most days, but he has to physically restrain himself from peeking around the doorway. That's a lie, he likes to imagine that he's serious and unaffected; his humor is dry and nobody really gets it, and so they assume he has none. But his job requires that he remain largely detached, so perhaps it's symptomatic of his work environment. He also _does_ peek around the doorway, just once.

 

He brings out the tea service, and they spend the next fifteen minutes rehashing paperwork and signing documents. The young woman, one Hattie Johnson, gives him a stern handshake at the door as well as a reminder that she will be back within the next two weeks to see how they're fairing. Percival knows that it's mostly for Credence's benefit, and while he's partly offended that someone thinks he could harm his intended, he's also strangely grateful that Credence has someone else he can count on, someone he already trusts. So, when he tells her “thank you”, he very much means it.

 

He turns to find Credence standing at the end of the couch, nervously ringing his hands.

 

“I, uh…” he trails off, looking at the hallway behind his future husband. “If you're tired, you can take a nap, or uh- I've prepared a room for you- in case you weren't comfortable- with me –”

 

He realizes that he's rambling when he catches Credence's wide-eyed expression, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly as though unsure if he's allowed to laugh. Graves finds himself returning the look, and finally the young man gives the softest smile. Percival’s breath catches in his throat. He wants to see that smile every day of his life. He wants to be responsible for each one, wants to selfishly hoard them like a dragon guarding his treasure.

 

“Your bed would be fine.” His blush has returned, pinking those gorgeous cheekbones. Percival finds himself taking his hand and leading him back to the master bedroom. Credence glances at the bed, then back at Percival. His hand is shaking. Percival steps away a bit, rubbing his thumb over Credence's knuckles before letting go. He makes his way to the dresser and opens a drawer, pulling a set of dark red flannel pajamas from inside, and turns to hand them to Credence.

 

“They told me your size; I hope you don't mind.”

 

“Thank you,” Credence whispers, and looks like he might cry. Percival shuffles toward the door, intent to leave him be and let him settle in, but Credence catches his sleeve.

 

The boy- _young man_ , he corrects himself- leans up to press the ghost of a kiss to his cheek, and then he's walking to the other side of the bed. Graves practically floats out of the room, turning just before he closes the door.

 

“I'll be in the office just upstairs if you need anything. I shouldn't be too long. Sleep well.”

 

The last thing he sees as he's closing the door is Credence hugging his new pajamas to his chest, that smile trying to peek through as his teeth worry his bottom lip to a plump red.


End file.
